As a father, husband, teacher, coach, man, writer, jack Lutheran, late-mid-life-elder, ne'er do well, and espresso addict I find myself tethered to more responsibility, commitment, and distraction than, as a younger man, I thought I would carry. So I write this wonderfully encumbered surprise of a life that I have been given. I see grace and I see atrocity; I respond writing odes to what I love and rants against what I abhor. If I lived in a cave I would paint these on the wall.

Monday, February 8, 2016

A Man's Work

At the end of the day
At the end of a life
When the heavy lifting
Of providing
Is done
The real work remains

Beneath the clutter
Of complaint
Insult
And sting of being
Overlooked targeted misunderstood
You see it is not
About deserving or fair or redemption

You give up licking old wounds

You no longer wait to be saved
But begin the work of resurrecting yourself

You sharpen your gaze
And do not look away

You want your soul
More than fame or love or comfort

You remember the assignment given at birth

Your work is to desire that which endures
To step forward
With every tool
You have crafted from the stones
Of your questions
To meet the fear
Unlock the gate
The obstacle blocking you from
Your joy
Your grief
The thrill of your
Divine inheritance

About Me

Poems and narrative essays function in ways other kinds of writing cannot. They are living things that raise the heart rate while raising questions. Not all delight, but most can kick. I toss these out there into the cyber ethers, the e-oceans, with hope that they are found and heard by someone somewhere.